Titanic Centennial and Other Matters of the Water

This week, the world is remembering the centennial of the Titanic tragedy with events to match every lifestyle. Perhaps you visited a museum or exhibition commemorating the event, or cruised to the crash site in the Atlantic Ocean, where passengers were encouraged to dress the part, take a look: A Dispatch from the Titanic Memorial Cruise

My fine hometown of St. Louis, Missouri, hosted an event at the Fabulous Fox Theatre: "Step back in time and experience the history, fashion, food and music of the elegant Edwardian Era with “Last Dinner On The Titanic," a celebration of the 100th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic." Is it appropriate to celebrate the anniversary of a tragedy? Remembrance might have been a better choice of words.

The "unsinkable" monster of a ship was a stalwart seafaring vessel to be sure, not unlike those that ply the waters today. Cruise ships. Ocean liners. Ferries.

I have embarked on a few ocean journeys myself, in places like Greece, Indonesia, and Malaysia. A few were interesting, to say the least: riding with cockroaches from Sumatra to Nias island, in the heart of Indonesian earthquake/tsunami territory; rocking back and forth amongst breathtaking scenery en route from Santorini Island to Athens, Greece, while a multitude of passengers vomited over the railing during the eight-hour ride.

And then there was the mother lode of them all. Sumatra to Jakarta, a 2-night, 3 day odyssey on a ship (hopefully) large enough to quell the fears ignited by those ubiquitous reports of sinking ferries in South East Asia. Pelni, the government-run passenger line, mans the ships that ply the waters in the archipelago that is Indonesia, a country of 17,000 islands. This particular boat was cruise-ship-like in appearance from the outside, big, broad, sturdy-looking, everything a passenger would hope for when embarking on such a journey.

Pelni ship

Penny pinching, I opted for economy class, which looked a little something like this:

Economy class "cots"

Packed in amongst the locals who also eschewed first, second, and third class, I was allotted a tiny space, the size of a cot, for the three-day journey. For an extra charge, you could buy a pad for the hard, wooden platform that would serve as bed, lounge and dining area. My trusty Therma-Rest was the perfect accessory for this ride. Really, the accommodations were fine, I didn't need much space, and the locals were all quite friendly. I did, however, felt a wee bit like an animal in a zoo, as curious eyes watched my every move. See the foreigner eat. See the foreigner sleep. Does the foreigner read? She does! And she showers, too! A few brave souls engaged me in conversation, and some tried to direct me to the mosque for daily prayers.

The social highlight of the voyage was disco bar night, where I listened to a groovy band, watched the man I nicknamed Captain Stubing getting down to a funky beat, and was invited to dance by a large man with a wispy mustache.

Although the food left a little bit to be desired, three meals a day were included in the cost of the ticket, so rice and bland vegetables served on a tin tray, prison style, did the trick. Not quite the elegant food of the Edwardian era that my fellow St. Louisans must have enjoyed at the "Last Dinner on the Titanic" celebration, but enough for me.

Newbie

As a consultant, the beginning of every new project is like the first day of a new job. I always have to spend some time getting to know the client, their industry, and the people I will rely on to help me complete my work.

This week, I kicked off a new project for a repeat client, a university, so I already know a little bit about the department, but I am meeting most of the people I will be working with for the first time.

Remember the first day of a new job? Those early days/weeks/months kinda suck. Not sure of exactly what you are supposed to be doing, you feel awkward and helpless. You need to ask for help. You feel the need to look busy even if you're not. If only you can fast forward to the day when you know what to do and are finally confident that you can do it.

When I graduated from college in 1990, the economy was much the same as it is today. Jobs were few and far between, so I had to get creative, and landed my first "real job" as an English teacher in Japan. If you know anything about Japan, you might remember that the land mass is spare, the population is dense, and the terrain consists of crowded cities and towns connected by very, very narrow roads wedged between and up the sides of mountain ranges.

Week one of the new job consisted of accompanying the departing teachers to every class in order to build navigation skills for the minimum two-hour round-trip drive to each class. I took copious notes and wrote things like, "turn left at the McDonald's, and then turn right at the yellow vegetable stand." Road signs in English were sparse.

During my free time that first week, I was tossed two sets of car keys and instructed to learn how to drive on the left side of the road.

Car choice #1 looked like this:

As if sucking in my breath to squeeze through narrow alleys studded with telephone poles wasn't stressful enough, trying to navigate the rear-view mirrors without shaving those babies right off the front of the car nearly sucked the wind right out of me. What kind of maniac would design such a car in a country with no room to spare?

Car choice #2 was a stick shift. Of course. So, Emily, please learn how to drive on the left, sitting on the right, while shifting with your left hand and trying not to turn the wrong way. Excellent.

Week two, it was time to man up because the old teachers jetted back to America, leaving me to get myself to class without getting lost or crashing the car, all the while figuring out how to teach English to my eager new students in the noodle factory, chemical company, and barber shop.

Somehow I lived to tell the tale.

This week, week one of my new project? It was a piece of cake.

Wake Me Up Before You Go

Boy #1 and Boy #2 enjoyed a relaxing in-town vacation last week during spring break. This Monday morning, they seemed happy enough to be back in their routine, but on Tuesday, they both needed to be at school early. At bedtime on Monday night, I reminded them, "Guys, everyone needs to be at school at 8:00 tomorrow morning, so you need to get up and get at it."

Although Boy #2 has an intense dislike for anything that contains the word camp, he has a sense of comfort around anything that involves the word school. "You'd better set my alarm so I won't be late, and turn it up so it will alarm me," he told me. And so I did.

Boy #2's alarm clock is set to beep at him a number of times, but also has the option to wake to the radio or to a CD. Similarly, my alarm clock also beeps at me three times, takes a break, then beeps at me three more times until I turn it off or hit the snooze.

I have awakened in many a town, city, country, tent, guest house, hotel, stranger's house, friend's house, hostel, and lodge. Many times, my location determined the wake-up method.

My first morning in Indonesia, on the island of Timor, the wake-up call came early and often, beginning at 4:30 a.m. First came the earsplitting rooster that I was certain was under my bed. On the heels of the rooster came the call to prayer, long about 5 a.m., over the loudspeaker in the center of town. The wailing continued until getting back to sleep was no longer an option, and I realized that in this predominantly Muslim country, I would be hearing the calls to prayer every day, numerous times a day, beginning in the wee hours of the morning.

When I left for a semester abroad in England, my parents gave me a tiny travel alarm clock, the size of a credit card. It sat on my makeshift bedside table, a box hidden beneath a scarf, and woke me every day for class. After a month or so, I was invited on a weekend trip with two other study abroad friends, both men. We took the train to the town of Norwich, and roamed around until we found a cozy B&B. When we inquired about the availability of a room for the night, the woman working behind the front desk was flummoxed. She clearly had issues with me, a female, spending the night in the same room with these two men, under her watch. We held our ground, and told her a tall tale, "Well, we had a bad experience up north, and....," implying that I was afraid to stay alone. Begrudgingly, she granted us the one room, but let her displeasure be known every time we passed the front desk.

Norwich Cathedral - Photo by Jean Brooks

After a lovely weekend touring Norwich and its historic cathedral, we returned to Essex. Monday morning I overslept, and realized that my alarm clock was missing. I checked with the guys, and of course, the clock was gone, no doubt forgotten in our scandalous room at the B&B. I had to call that disapproving woman and politely ask her to mail me the alarm clock. Miraculously, she did. That alarm clock traveled with me for the next five years, until it fell apart.

I spent a month in and around Queenstown, New Zealand, utilizing the facilities of a backpacker's hostel, while sleeping in a tent out back every night in order to reduce my nightly rate. Every morning, I woke up with the sun to a view of stunning Lake Wakatipu.

Lake Wakatipu - Photo courtesy of www.dangerous-business.com

In Victoria, Australia, I was up before dawn every day to beat the heat while working on a grape farm. But it wasn't the early morning wake-ups that were memorable. While there was grape picking going on at the farm, there was also a fair amount of work that involved drying fruit, in this case sultanas, which are small, sweet and golden colored raisins. The grapes were dried on racks, shaken from the racks, raked out on tarps on the ground, and further dried in the sun. At the first hint of a raindrop, those sultanas needed to be covered to protect them from further moisture. Behold the middle of the night wake up, the farm's owner pounding on my bedroom door, "Rain! Rain! Cover the grapes! Cover the grapes!" We all rushed outside, shook the grapes into the center of their tarps, folded the edges over, and tucked those sultanas into their own snug beds. If I was lucky, there was still time for me to tuck myself back into my bed before heading out to work again at dawn.

Today, my alarm clock glows blue on my bedside table, replacing the red digital numbers that stared at me during my younger years. Most days, I don't need an alarm clock anymore, Boy #1 and Boy #2 make sure of that.

Travel (and lack thereof)

I did most of my adventure travel in my 20s. During that time, I studied in England for a semester, saw a bit of Europe and the USSR during my spring break, and parlayed the end of my semester into a month in Paris in my friend's free-of-charge closet-sized apartment in the 7th arrondissement. Never mind that two of us invited ourselves to come stay, and that it was way too small for one, let alone three of us, but we made it work, albeit with little room to maneuver. I worked in Japan for a year, backpacked and worked my way through Southeast Asia and the South Pacific, took separate trips to Vietnam and Malaysian Borneo, and a trip to Europe for good measure. (note to self for future blog post re: cheap cheap cheap travel to Europe and Vietnam summer 1996 - you too can do this, people!).

The Paris apartment

I was married at 30, and my late 20s/early to mid-30s were all about a honeymoon in Costa Rica and traveling to other people's weddings. Thanks to becoming DINKs (double income no kids), this time period included multiple trips across the country to weddings in places like Virginia, Cape Cod, Carmel, upstate New York, Washington DC, Texas, Atlanta and San Francisco. Thankfully, it also included a small dose of international travel to a wedding in the Middle East, in Jordan, that involved a lot of swords.

Photo by Mariea Rummel Photography

While this may all sound quite glamorous, here is the truth. In England, I was a student, and there is nothing glamorous about having no money. The month in Paris was much the same, and meals of lettuce, baguettes and cheese were the norm. And jumping the Metro gates. And accessing the refrigerator while seated on the toilet. That big trip, to Southeast Asia and the South Pacific? Much of that time I was living out of a tent, scrimping and saving in order to continue traveling as long as possible. And working jobs like grape picking to make extra money. Costa Rica? Honeymooning in a nature preserve for part of our stay, we shacked up in a cabin outfitted with bunk beds and window screens - and 100 degree heat. We each lay prone on our bunks and insisted that it was too hot to go near each other. And then there was the punishing diarrhea in Jordan. I'll spare you the gory details, but it started at the High Place of Sacrifice and ended with an ambulance ride out of Petra (note to self for future blog post).

My life as an international traveler came to a screeching halt upon the arrival of Boy #1 in 2002. And Boy #1 arrived very sick, which made it hard to even think about leaving my home town, let alone the country. And then came Boy #2 in 2005. Romantic 10th anniversary trip to Paris in 2009? Fat chance. Trip to Europe in 2011 to visit many friends now living overseas with THEIR kids? Nada.

Oh, I know it can be done. But the logistics? And the cost? We've had a handful of adventurous trips together right here in the USA, but overseas? It's just not in the budget right now.

The locals certainly made it look easy. The women of Southeast Asia were practiced at attaching babies to their bodies with sarongs and going about their business, carrying baskets of water on their heads or working in the fields. I saw children riding effortlessly on varying modes of transportation, including the tuk-tuk, scooter, bejak, train, ferry, minibus, and tour bus. The children that I encountered were sweet, polite and curious. 

Photo by Dewan Irawan

Boy #1 and Boy #2 are now old enough to help take care of themselves, and when we finally muster up the courage (and money) to take them abroad, it will surely be easier than I imagine. I haven't given up hope. Our day will come. Will the first overseas family adventure be a new adventure for all of us? Or will I take them to one of my old haunts and show them a place that is undoubtedly not how I remember it at all?

They're not mine! Really.

Death and John Denver

Death and John Denver were my childhood obsessions, and they are inextricably linked as the late-night, mind-spinning ideas that stole my sleep as a youth. Thoughts of death invoked visions of not being here someday and massive stomach-aches, until my hero John Denver came to rescue me. In my dark bedroom, I used to imagine John Denver as the prize in a contest that I always won (of course), and that prize was to spend the day with John Denver. He would come to school with me, meet my friends, and have dinner with my family.

Death and John Denver collided yesterday when I attended the funeral of a dear family friend. A beautiful remembrance of her life took place at the synagogue, and to close the ceremony, her son led the mourners in John Denver's "Country Roads."

En route to the cemetery, I paid attention to my surroundings. It was a gorgeous day, new magnolia and forsythia blossoms covered the trees, birds were chirping and a warm breeze was blowing. It was a day fitting for our dear departed friend, who cherished the outdoors. A memory came to me, there in the car. During my time in Japan teaching English, I received a phone call on a Saturday afternoon from one of my adult students. He explained as best he could, in broken English, that his son had just passed away. At the time, I didn't know much about his personal life, I didn't even know how many children he had or if his child had been sick or had succumbed to some terrible accident. He was calling to invite me to the funeral, he explained, he wanted me to experience the traditions surrounding a Japanese funeral. In his time of profound sorrow, he was thinking of an opportunity. Sadly, I wasn't able to attend.

There is undoubtedly a lot to learn about death (and life) by studying or observing rituals from around the world. We likely have some preconceived notions about who does what and how, or what we might like for ourselves. For me, I wonder if learning more might quell my own fears with the notion that one day you're here and one day you're gone. But I can seek comfort in the words of my beloved John Denver, "Country Roads, take me home, to the place, I belong....."

A Moment of Silence

During an innocent stroll through Maumere, Indonesia with 1 man and 3 other women, our group collected men (and boys), who followed us to the beach with wide-eyed fascination. 

As evidenced by the photo, the beach wasn't really a beach, but a hodgepodge of concrete slabs strewn over what used to be the beach. You wouldn't have known from the friendly demeanor of the locals, but 7 months before our arrival, Maumere suffered a massive earthquake and tsunami, the largest and deadliest earthquake that year. Thousands of people lost their lives, and most of Maumere was destroyed. Did the world sit up and pay attention?

One year ago, the world watched in horror as a wall of water rushed onto the earthquake-devastated landscape of North-Eastern Japan and washed away the lives and livelihoods of nearly 19,000 people.  The world sprang into action, and relief came from around the globe, with help from the likes of Lady Gaga and Cyndi Lauper.

 

A disaster in the right place at the right time can unite the world. The Haiti earthquake. Hurricane Katrina. The Indian ocean earthquake and tsunami of 2004. But what about devastating incidents like the Maumere earthquake, the recent floods in Thailand, or the catastrophic landslides in the Philippines in 2006? Did the world take notice? Should the world take notice? In a time when technology and connectedness broadcast everything everywhere instantaneously, how much is too much? What compels us to act? Do we choose one catastrophe over another? Do we choose not to act? Is it OK not to act?

A moment of silence, then, to remember those affected in Japan one year ago today. And a moment of silence for our global neighbors who fall victim to the countless other tragedies that take place both in the public eye, and far from the public eye, for the human suffering is the same.

AP Photo

Sheep on Board

Unquestionably, hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere leaves you vulnerable. You must be a good, and quick, judge of character. You have a few tiny moments to size up the driver and determine whether or not to climb into the car. The times that I felt the most hesitant resulted in the friendliest drivers, leaving me feeling somewhat guilty.

One beautiful day, hitching from the Coromandel peninsula towards Auckland, New Zealand, a young man, seemingly friendly, in a clean enough car, offered an hour's ride in the right direction. Without hesitation, my travel companion and I accepted the ride. Casual conversation with the flannel-clad man revealed that he was returning from a hunting trip, and his rifle was in the way back of the station wagon. Also back there? His kill. A dead sheep. Covered in plastic sheeting. I peeked over the seat, and came nose to nose with the dead sheep. It didn't smell. It didn't talk. It was a fine traveling companion for an hour. I might not have even noticed it was there without the tip off.

During deer hunting season in Missouri, it is not uncommon to see a dead deer splayed out in the bed of a pickup truck. It is certainly a time to select your hiking trails carefully. It might be considerate for hunters to find a way to advertise their cargo.

I might have selected a different ride.